


Cry to the Clouds

by thelightofmorning



Series: Burn the Dragonfires Once More [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Child Abandonment, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Non-Graphic Violence, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 01:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Julius Martin Aurelius intended to regain the throne and power of his ancestors.The Greybeards show him another path.





	Cry to the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, child abandonment, religious conflict and mentions of torture and imprisonment. The tale of Julius Martin Aurelius, aka Arngeir, in the Aurelii AUs.

 

“Marius Aurelius?”

            The golden-skinned Altmer looked up from the reports on Thalmor and nearly swallowed his tongue. Tall for an Imperial, though a little short for a Nord, the spellsword sent by the newly formed Synod was ruggedly handsome with warm olive-bronze skin, black hair braided into an Orcish club, and eyes blue as… well… Martin Septim’s. His profile was proudly aquiline and his lantern jaw was paired with an adorable hint of underbite to his firm mouth. His Orcish armour was of the best quality, hard-worn and well-tended, and a leather-wrapped hilt protruded over his right shoulder. Not a youth, but not an oldster either.

            “I am,” Marius confirmed. “Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple. Do you have any objections to serving with the Blades?”

            The spellsword snorted slightly. “Not particularly. My name is Julius Martin gro-Mashog.”

            Marius dropped his jaw and quill at the same time. How long had it been? Thirty, forty years since he’d visited Cracked Tusk Keep? Julius had been a sturdy boy at the time, dwarfed by his Orcish kin. For the sake of the Empire and the hidden Septim bloodline, Marius and the other Blades had stayed away. It appeared like Julius had followed his father into the study of sorcery to supplement his warrior skills.

            Julius knelt down and picked up the quill. Marius’ throat went dry. Martin and Aurelia had gotten themselves a beautiful son between them. A distant cousin of Marius. A _very_ distant cousin.

            “It’s… it’s good to meet you,” Marius finally said. “I knew your mother and father during the Oblivion Crisis.”

            “I know. Grandfather told me before he died.” Julius handed the quill over to Marius. “I understand the political situation of the time necessitated my concealment from the Elder Council.”

            “Not all the Elder Council. Ocato and Ralinde knew,” Marius told him. “But the Thalmor killed them both.”

            “Ah yes, the Thalmor.” Julius’ tone was edged. “They have tried to kill me three times, you know that?”

            “I didn’t, actually,” Marius admitted. “I think they’re building up to a war.”

            “It will come. Not soon. But it will come.” Julius’ blue eyes blazed with the certitude of prophecy. “That is why I am here. To help the Blades prepare for it.”

…

After a series of ineffectual Grandmasters, the five senior Blades were only too happy to raise Julius Martin Aurelius to the position after a year of service. His resume was nothing short of impressive: a decade spent at the College of Winterhold, including serving as Master Wizard to Savos Aren’s newly raised Arch-Mage; five years spent as a Companion of Jorrvaskr; Blood-Kin to the Orcs of the Reach; Evoker in the Synod for the past twenty years. The few Blades who remembered his parents remarked that he had the deliberate thoughtfulness of his father married to the decisive action of his mother. When he activated a full fifth of the Blades to move against the Thalmor, none argued against it.

            On the political front, he wooed a cousin of the Carvains named Aria. Beautiful and intelligent, she would have made an excellent Empress. Within ten years they had a son called Arius, who watched much, said little and trusted no one. In the dark aftermath of the Stormcrown Interregnum and the consolidation of Titus Mede I’s rule over Cyrodiil, these were considered virtues.

            (Later generations of Blades would curse Arius, but that was over a century in the coming).

            Yes, Aria Carvain would have made an excellent Empress. Except that she died at the hands of a Thalmor ‘Justicar’ named Ondolemar, who was captured afterwards. Several of the Blades remarked on the striking resemblance to Marius Aurelius, the Eternal Champion and Master of Cloud Ruler Temple.

            Julius was in his office when he called for Marius. Arius was sedated because he wouldn’t stop screaming for his mother. The boy had almost died at Ondolemar’s hands too. The Septim line, almost snuffed out.

            “We have an opportunity,” Julius said tersely as Marius entered the office. “We’ve extracted everything possible from the Thalmor agent. For people who like to indulge in torture, they’re remarkably weak in enduring it.”

            “You want me to go into deep cover within the Thalmor,” Marius said slowly. He’d heard the rumours about his resemblance to Ondolemar.

            “Yes.” Julius’ eyes were cold. “There are dark times coming. If things happen for the worst, I will need you hidden among the Thalmor, the last of the true Blades.”

            “Dark times, Grandmaster?”

            “You and I will live to see the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn fulfilled. I…” He took a deep breath and turned to the open window. “FUS!”

            The potted vervain plant Aria used to tend flew off from the force of his Shout to shatter in the courtyard below.

            “I think I’m the Last Dragonborn. I’ve read everything we know about the Thu’um, which is precious little.” Julius sighed, looking every inch his sixty-something years. Even with mastery of Alteration and Restoration, humans could only slow their ageing so much. “I have no choice but to go to High Hrothgar, to study with the Greybeards.”

            Marius bowed his head. “How long do you think it will take?”

            “My father taught himself to Shout in two or three weeks. I learned in a month. Given expert tutelage, I expect it will be a year or so to master the greater Shouts.” Julius’ smile was grim. “Then we will bring the storm to the Thalmor.”

            “Your mother would approve,” Marius finally said.

            “My father?”

            “I don’t know.”

…

The Seven Thousand Steps lived up to their name. Julius struggled to his feet again using one of the Wayshrines that told the tale of the Greybeards and staggered on. He was the Last Dragonborn. He wouldn’t let a little blizzard stop him.

            When he came to, he was tucked in a bed, covered with a snowy bearskin. His surroundings were austere and the person watching over him a lean, spare Nord with frosty green eyes and an iron-grey beard. The Greybeard wore a robe trimmed with hawk feathers and a disapproving expression.

            “You almost died,” the Greybeard said icily. “What possessed you to climb Monahven during a blizzard?”

            “I am a Blade,” Julius said, struggling to sit up. “I need the Thu’um to fight the Thalmor.”

            “The Thalmor who arose in response to Talos and the Blades conquering their homeland?” the Greybeard asked coldly.

            “The ones who are trying to end the world,” Julius told him.

            The Greybeard shook his head. “They won’t succeed. Only Alduin may do so.”

            Julius took a deep breath. “I’m the Last Dragonborn, damn you!”

            “No, you are not.”

            In hindsight, Shouting the man off his seat with the Force Shout wasn’t perhaps the best response to that bald statement.

            The Greybeard struggled to his feet, blood trickling from his nose and split lip. “So, you think you’re the Last Dragonborn? Come then. Let Paarthurnax test your Voice.”

            They went outside to a snow-covered courtyard. “PAARTHURNAX!” yelled the Greybeard.

            A grey dragon, battered and ancient, arose from the peak and landed in the courtyard. Julius stepped back, hand groping for his katana, and found himself the target of a fiery gaze. But he had no katana.

            “I am the Last Dragonborn!” he told the dragon.

            “No, you are not,” was Paarthurnax’s response.

            “Master Paarthurnax, this one can Shout,” the Greybeard said. “He fancies himself a Battle-Tongue like the Three.”

            “I am Julius Martin,” Julius announced. “Son of Martin Septim and Aurelia Northstar.”

            “Are you now?” Paarthurnax sounded more amused than anything else. “Jul-Laas. Life of the joorre… Yes, I see you have some god-blood in you. Thin, but there.”

            The grey dragon shifted. “But a true Dovahkiin has a true name. Come then, son of Tah-Los, and prove yourself.”

            It was perhaps the first time since the age of twelve Julius had been defeated. His one Word against Paarthurnax’s several. The Greybeard healed him in between each Shout with Restoration magic and a vinegary expression.

            “You are Dovahsos, blood of the dragon,” Paarthurnax remarked, resting his snout on his claws as the Greybeard healed Julius’ wounds for the fifth time. “But you are not Dovahkiin.”

            “If I had the naming of him, it would be Aar-Nah-Gaar,” snapped the Greybeard. “He is a slave to his fury and thinks nothing of releasing it, no matter the consequences.”

            “Yes,” Paarthurnax agreed. “He is Aar-Nah-Gaar.”

            “I already have a name, dammit!” Julius spat. “I need to learn the Thu’um-“

            “-To kill a group of elves who want to kill a group of men who helped kill a group of elves at the behest of Talos Stormcrown,” the Greybeard said testily. “So on and so forth back to the arrival of the Atmorani in the time of the distant green summers.”

            Paarthurnax rose to his feet. “JOOR DAAL!”

            Julius found himself at the base of the Throat of the World wearing nothing but his skin.

            Snarling, he began to climb the Seven Thousand Steps again. He would not be dissuaded.

…

“Aar-Nah-Gaar. Are you so eager to be sent back down again?”

            This Greybeard was young, wheat-blond and hearty, with an air of amusement. This was Julius’ third climbing of the mountain. This time, he’d stopped in front of each Wayshrine and read it. By the time he reached High Hrothgar, he thought he understood.

            “It isn’t about glory,” he said. “I’m trying to save the world.”

            “Oh, you will.” The Greybeard rose to his feet. “Walk with me.”

            He was taken to a long corridor carved with elaborate murals. “The history of the Way of the Voice,” the Greybeard explained. “Once, every clan in Skyrim had its Tongue. Hundreds of people, all skilled in the Thu’um, tearing the nation apart with the power of the Voice.”

            They came to a panel depicting a defeated Nord army slinking away from an exploding volcano. “Red Mountain. Jurgen Windcaller was the most powerful of the remaining Tongues. Wanting to understand why, he retreated into meditation for seven years until he realised that the Nords had offended Kynareth by using the Thu’um as a weapon.”

            “What does the Thu’um have to do with Kynareth?” Julius asked.

            The Greybeard gave him a withering glance. “It was _Kynareth_ who gave humanity the ability to learn the Thu’um and who persuaded Paarthurnax and Teyfunvahzah to teach them.”

            “…That isn’t mentioned in the histories of the Blades.”

            “Of course not. Talos would hardly admit that it was the Mother of Men who granted Him the power to Shout in the first place. Akatosh may decide who has a dragon’s soul but it is Kynareth who gave humanity the potential in the first place.”

            They went to the next panel, where a figure in robes not unlike a Greybeard stood over the prone bodies of seventeen other opponents. “Jurgen Windcaller developed a creed where the Thu’um would only be used to worship Kynareth and glory the gods. Now, the Way of the Voice does permit the use of the Thu’um in self-defence or defence of another’s life. Jurgen was a realist, after all. But it cannot be used to avenge or deliberately harm someone else first.”

            “I see.” Julius nodded to the prone figures. “Who are they?”

            “The seventeen leaders of the Tongues who Jurgen defeated. He endured their Shouts for three days, even stripping some of the most egregious of their ability to speak, and proved the Way of the Voice as superior.” The Greybeard tucked his hands inside his sleeves. “There were one or two other schools that never challenged Jurgen and continued until the time of Talos. But when he became Tiber Septim, he forced the closure of those schools and put them into the Imperial College of the Voice. These days, non-Greybeard Tongues are rare and most of them are priests of Kynareth or Talos who developed a knack for it by intense study.”

            “My father… Martin Septim… he could Shout open a portal to the realms of Mehrunes Dagon,” Julius said softly.

            “He was Dragonborn. A true Dragonborn.” The Greybeard’s face was grim. “Akatosh, from what I can tell, allowed his inner dragon to come forth in order to defeat Mehrunes Dagon.”

            “So there are no more Dragonborn Septims?”

            “Maybe.” The Greybeard shrugged. “I’m just a junior Greybeard here. Half of Skyrim’s nobility are descended from Wulfharth and the other from Talos. The dragon-blood makes it easier to learn the Thu’um, so the Greybeards tend to recruit from their ranks.”

            “I need to learn,” Julius said desperately. “I want to protect my people.”

            “Do you? We will see.” He led Julius to another part of the fortress and handed him a grey robe. “Welcome to the Greybeards.”

…

“You have been here longer than you realise,” Paarthurnax said as he and Arngeir walked along in the courtyard. “Decades. But you have the power to raise and calm storms. Will you return now to the Blades?”

            “No,” Arngeir said quietly. “It will only make the coming war worse.”

            “Are you not worried about your people?”

            “I’ve been here for fifty years. Most of those who knew me are dead or old. My son has grown up without me.”

            “True.” Paarthurnax sighed gustily. “Asgeir will die soon. You are the only one with enough mastery of the Voice to serve as the Greybeards’ speaker. Will you do so?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then you are Aar-Nah-Gaar no more, but Aar-Naar-Gaar. Welcome home.”


End file.
